Remember To Live

We’ve made it to the 40th entry in this song-inspired series of poems! I hope you enjoy reading this one – and listening to the song that inspired it, ‘Long Live The Queen’ by Frank Turner, which I’ve embedded below as always so you can listen while you read if you like. It’s a little bit of an abstract one, I think, which I hope is as interesting to read as it was to write!

First Poem In This Series: To Witness, To Behold, inspired by ‘Sowing The Seeds Of Love’ by Tears For Fears

Previous Poem In This Series: Walk & Listen – Or Not, inspired by ‘Get The Funk Out’ by Extreme

Remember To Live

Perhaps a thousand hands, perhaps a little more,
all pressed against a wall, hard as brick,
but effortlessly blank in that dream-like way–
and here I am, with both hands up, elbows aching,
wondering why no one else looks up, away
from their stretched fingers–the tips
are purple, followed by a pale band,
their faces scrunched as they watch the pressure,
as if there is nothing else, has never been,
as if there is no one beside them, has never been.

Occasionally, the exertion ends–the person,
now only a body for the briefest moment,
falls back, and beneath those fingers,
the curved prints, finally embedded,
remain, as they fall–but the moment
is gone so soon, and there is no body.

The rest don’t look at the prints;
the rest continue to stare ahead.

But my head turns, because how
could someone ever ignore
that vanishing act? There
is an ache now–there was
one thousand, at least,
and now there is…
nine hundred and ninety-nine,
perhaps. All that is certain
is that there is one less,
and now ten marks are visible;
if only for as long as I observe–

There is a tap on my shoulder,
the action so unfamiliar
that the sensation is electric–
not only sharp, but a sting
that causes my hands to leave
the wall–too early, too soon,
there is nothing left behind…

I am moving–there are smiles,
and bodies that do not stay still,
but sway as if there is music,
somewhere, that I just can’t hear.

Somehow, I leave a void that
has always been, and see sky,
and feel grass, and when I forget
about the wall, and the prints,
I seem to hear the soft notes
of music, although I can’t tell
where from–and then I dance, too.